


No Mystical Design

by Rubynye



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 21:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: He has business with Gardulla the Hutt, who lends him her slavegirl to sweeten the deal.





	No Mystical Design

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yujacheong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/gifts).

> Written for Yujacheong in the Darkest Night 2019 exchange! I really enjoyed having a reason to write this story, which has been in the back of my head for so long!

Senator Sheev Palpatine is, of course, not here, not now. He has donned the simple alias ’S’ and the coarse, loose clothing of a nondescript smuggler from any one of five hundred words, fetched up on this desert planet at the other end of the Galaxy from anyplace worthwhile. He has investigated a malign energy and found it no more than the collected miseries of too much starshine and too little freedom, nothing he can grasp and use, and has come now to trade with Gardulla the Hutt as part of his planned exit from this sandy little world.

Gardulla has risen since he saw her last. She commands wider quarters and more attendants, including a tall female Human, young and pale. The woman draws his gaze with her calm dignity, wearing bruises on her arms and legs like jewelry, her hair a long sand-brown plait dangling over one shoulder, her top pinned at the other and barely clinging to her breasts, her hips wrapped in a soft fluttering skirt. And her eyes…

Veiled by long lashes, downcast over her delicate nose and quiet mouth, their color an intriguing mystery. She carries a steaming drink to her mistress, raises and holds it as Gardulla slurps it down, and folds down beside the dais with efficient grace, never raising her hidden eyes.

“_You like this one_,” Gardulla notes, and he lets her feel amused, lets her think she’s won a point. “Shmi.” Who sits straight, alert, but doesn’t look up. “_See our guest to quarters for his midday rest. Attend him until he rises._” 

“Yes, Mistress,” Shmi notes as she stands, not eagerly, not bitterly, just quietly. “This way, honored Sir.” She walks before him and he follows, both for the pleasant view of her long back and shifting bottom and because he really could use a short respite, an effortless moment of pleasure far from the complexities of Senatorial life. 

She leads him to a bright but hazy room, gauzy curtains filtering the window’s light, the mattress low but wide and clean. Silently, she brings him sweet water to drink and turns down the covers, then kneels beside the mattress, hands on thighs, waiting.

“Get in, my dear,” he tells her, and she nods without coyness, unfastens her top and unwraps her skirt and slides off her sandals, and tips forward, rolling onto her back in the middle of the mattress. He smiles, unfastening his outermost layers; he would never trust Gardulla enough to undress fully in her lair, but his inner shirt and short breeches will be thin enough to feel this woman through. And as he undresses he can look at her, her still face, her slow breathing, her soft breasts and the curves of her belly, the little thatch of warm brown hair at the apex of her long thighs. “Are you as calm as you appear?” he asks as he unfastens his breeches enough for access. 

Shmi shrugs, lying on her back, hands turned palms up. “Would you have me calm, honored Sir?”

He likes this one. No servile fawning, no flashing defiance, just the coolness of deep water. “I would,” he tells her as he joins her on the mattress, as he lays his hand on her belly and she neither flinches nor goes rigid. At this first touch he can feel the Force swirling through her, powerful but contained; she cannot access it herself, he senses, but then if she could would she be a slave? “Another time I might try to earn your wildness.”

“Another time when sunset is not so near,” she says, raising her eyes to him at last, and he finds them as deep as the water he envisioned, a complex and soothing color, not tearful, not shining. Just beautiful.

On the kind of impulse he rarely indulges, he leans in and kisses her between those eyes. “May I see you, my dear?” he asks as he tips onto his knees, and obligingly she parts her legs for him. As he shuffles forward he sets his palms on her inner thighs, their skin soft and heated over firm flesh, and strokes upwards and inwards. Her mound is pillowy and somewhat reddened beneath its pelt, and when he parts her open with his thumbs she draws in a long steady breath, her folds hot and red and swollen, just slightly damp from her last wash. He sweeps his thumb alongside her entrance and feels her minute tremble, the radiant soreness beneath his light touch. The thought of how keenly she will feel him now, after her evidently busy day, stirs his already heated blood, setting his hardened member throbbing.

“Ah, delectable,” he says, leaning up over her, letting go to settle his hands either side of her shoulders. As she nods acknowledgment she raises her arms around him, flattening her hands on his back and shoulder, and he smiles over her skin as he tips forward atop her, as she raises her knees to let him nestle in between her thighs. 

A shift, a slide, and he’s sinking into her. She’s not wet, nor would he have expected she’d be, but she is yielding and warm, comfortingly snug around him, and she exhales over his chin and angles her hips up to his, her breasts and belly pressed to him through his thin shirt, her long firm thighs bracketing his hips. Her flesh clings around his, and he can sense her soreness rising with his every stroke, but she never lets herself wince even when he puts his back into it, smacking flesh on flesh. She is a delight, rocking herself into his thrusts, sighing gently in his rhythm, more smoothly than his increasingly ragged breathing. He grips the mattress for better leverage, letting his hips roll without input from his higher brain, letting simple animal pleasure wash through him as she works with him towards the breaking point, onwards and upwards until—

The shudders take him, the tension streams out of him, he groans softly and she murmurs soothing noise, maintaining her embrace as he slumps, until he tips himself off her.

She withdraws her limbs but doesn’t shift away, lying quietly beside him as he breathes from ecstasy down to calm. He has rarely felt such contentment outside the Force. He opens his eyes to look on her, her broad forehead and wide closed eyes, and entertains a moment’s fancy of asking to buy her, before putting the whim aside for several reasons, each sufficient alone.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says instead, and she nods, accepting the praise, looks up to assess him, and nods again.

“Whatever you would like, honored Sir,” she says softly. “Would you sleep now? Shall I go?”

His blood runs smoothly, calmly, but lassitude doesn’t pull at him. “No, I think not,” he answers. “Stay with me if you would?”

“Of course.” She sits up, braid swinging down along her sleek arm, and pulls the light coverlet up over him. It’s equipped with rudimentary temperature-control circuitry, lighting up in a dim blue netting, and he sighs again at the pleasure of it, coolness besides warmth, as he watches her sit back against the wall, how her breasts quiver and her belly flexes.

“You are pleasant to look upon,” he tells her, and she nods again, graciously, dignified in nakedness. “How did Her Exaltedness Gardulla come by such a lovely handmaiden?”

Her eyelids swing down, veiling those eyes. “My Lady purchased me from my former master’s estate sale.”

“And are you happy here?”

She looks sidelong at him from beneath the shadow of her lashes. “Of course,” she lies smoothly, as if no other answer were possible.

He smiles, and lays his hand on her curved thigh, as he might sit at ease within a temple he’s been permitted to enter. “Truly? No one will hear your words but me.”

She looks at him another few moments, and sighs beautifully, and looks down again. “My Lady’s primary task for me is to please her guests. Her many guests. My Lady says if I serve enough guests, that when she makes enough credits, she’ll buy another attendant or two to lighten the work, but… in the two years and a half I’ve been here, I’ve lost all count. It feels futile to even try keeping count. I would rather return to cleaning latrines.” He wonders if she’ll cry, but all she does is sigh once more, and breathe, breasts softly shifting as her chest rises and falls. 

“You were wasted on latrines,” he says, and, “would you have me buy you?” to watch the consideration spin through her thoughts. She looks at him, and her desire to escape Gardulla does swirl countercurrent with prudent worry, until she shakes her head.

“My Lady would set you a ridiculous price just for the sport of it,” she says, which matches his earlier conclusion. “Thank you, honored Sir, but no.”

“Besides, you have no idea who I am or how I’d treat you,” he fills in, and she shrugs again, lifting her smooth shoulders as if she hadn’t just been thinking the same. “You deal well with such an offer.” 

“You rain compliments upon me,” she responds, and almost helplessly, he smiles, patting her thigh. 

“May I set you another one?” She nods, still displaying only calm though curiosity flickers deep within. “A surname. Skywalker.”

Her eyes flicker wide for a telling moment, he senses her heart fluttering like a bird. He’s hit deeper in her than he’s yet touched, and glee surges in his chest. Oh, this woman would be a delightful toy, if he dared. “What would,” she starts, and pauses, collecting her armor of calmness back around her. “Slaves have only our one name,” she says evenly. “But still, I thank you, kind Sir.”

“You may still be able to use it,” he replies lightly, patting her thigh. She makes herself nod, clearly disbelieving, clearly disquieted, ever gracious, and as he reaches to slide his fingers along her shoulder he widens his smile.

* * *

Some time later a droid beeps in the doorway, rousing him from his light doze with his cheek pressed to the soft hair atop her head, his arm slung across her waist. _Honored Guest,_ it croaks in metallic tones, _Slave Shmi, you are summoned._

“Thank you, 89-E23,” she murmurs as she sits up, just as politely as if it were organic. “Sir, please excuse me?” He nods, sitting up himself as she slips from the pallet and into the refresher. The droid beeps and flashes as it turns away, and he stretches as he waits for his turn. 

She emerges quickly, dressed and wiped clean, and waits outside the doorway as he completes his own ablutions. When he’s ready she nods silently, and as he follows her back to Gardulla’s audience chamber he watches the end of her braid swing behind her hips and considers touching her once more.

He decides against further indulgence, and when they arrive he finds Gardulla snoozing on her dais, a flock of small droids being led away by a household droid, and a tall orange twi’lek who turns and grins at Shmi. She nods to the twi’lek, indicating “This way, sir,” almost simultaneously with 89-E23’s announcement, “Honored Guest, your vehicle is loaded and ready.”

So he trades the beautiful girl for the bucket-like droid, but as he follows it he feels an eddy at the edge of his awareness and looks back to see her, the twi’lek’s arm slung round her waist and other hand up under her already flimsy top, glancing back over her shoulder away from the twi’lek, towards him.

He turns away, ducking through a low doorway, and only then privately smiles to himself. It’s always nice to be wanted.


End file.
